


Paternal

by malchanceux



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Kidnapping, Mild Gore, Murder, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-16
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-02-21 08:56:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2462339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/malchanceux/pseuds/malchanceux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had always thought it'd be more interesting if Oliver had actually turned out to be a Merlyn, instead of his sister.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't posted since April. Much sad. Needed to post something, no matter how small. :(

“Jesus, Moira, you can’t just— _lock me out._ Not now, not after—”

“Yes I can, Malcolm, _especially_ after.”

A tense silence, both Alpha and Beta posturing. Merlyn growls low in his throat, clenches his fists, wishing flesh was pressed beneath his palm and—

“So be it,” he grits, “For now, Moira _._ But not for long. He is _my_ son, more than he was ever _Robert’s_.”

“You sentenced him to five years of Hell, Malcolm—whatever has possessed you to think that any claim you had on Oliver survived the _Gambit’s_ sinking, I assure you, is a delusion.”

“Watch your tongue. Tread lightly.”

“I’m not afraid of you anymore, or your _Dark Archer._ I’m done with you both, I’m done with the Undertaking.”

She steps forward, fierce and bold with the primal need to protect her _children_. Even as a Beta, stepping up against an Alpha no less, her maternal instincts are strong.

Quiet. An Alpha in his prime staring down a mother Beta past her own. Still, an _angry_ mother made for a force to be reckoned with. Malcolm knew this from when she first discovered the death of her husband had been by his hands, and had thought her Omegan son was lost too, because of him. They had fought, marks had been left behind, relationships turned to ash, compromises made.

“I will give him time to adjust,” Malcolm says, once more calm, as though Moira hadn’t just tried to deny him—for the second time—his _son,_ “But he will know the truth, whether from me or you. I will have him know who his father is.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> idk there wasn't really supposed to be more but it happened. might be later chapters, maybe not. *shrugs*

Despite Moira’s denial and his temporary capitulation, Malcolm kept tabs on Oliver’s recovery. The Beta had dug her heels in, but eventually she had conceded medical reports to be discreetly delivered to him. No one was to know what his true interests were in the young Queen, and Malcolm was not to step a foot into the hospital the Omega was being held. It riled primal instincts within him, his temper burned at the thought of being denied what was rightfully his, but for Oliver’s sake, Malcolm had decided to play by Moira’s rules.

And Oliver’s health truly was all that mattered.

With each report sent to him, a pit split open wider in his gut and left him hollower and hollower. Scar tissue of up to 20% of Oliver’s body, signs of Post-Traumatic Stress, several injuries that had healed incorrectly, some of which that would need surgical correction or risk chronic pain in his later years. These were only the tip of the iceberg of what was wrong with the boy. His boy. _His_ son.

Merlyn by blood, not a _Queen._

But Malcolm acquiesces to Moira’s demands and stays good on their deal for two weeks. It’s when both Oliver and Tommy are lifted off the street by petty thugs that the eldest Merlyn can hold his Alpha instincts back no longer.

“I thought I told you to stay _away_ ,” Moira yells when he bursts through Walter Steele’s office door. Police are there along with the bonded pair, crowded around the phone at the desk. Waiting for a ransom, Malcolm thinks, and almost snarls in disgust.

“And I agreed with Oliver’s wellbeing in mind. I’m here for the same reason.”

“You have no _right—”_

“I have _every_ right. They are _my_ sons, Moira.”

“Your sons?” Walter questions, but a shabby detective cuts in, placating as another Alpha can be.

“Mr. Merlyn, we sent police to Merlyn Global Group’s headquartersto keep you updated. Forensics should be there any minute to tap your office phones in case of a ransom call. You need to be there in case—”

Malcolm does snarl then, bares his teeth and roars.

“I _will not_ give these bastards a _cent_ for _my cubs._ ”

The room is silent for a tense beat, two, before Walter splits through the quite with an accusing tone.

“Moira, what aren’t you tell me?”

“Look, I’m not in the mood for your first class drama,” the slovenly detective bites out, “Obviously you Queens have some drama to hash out _later,_ right now our main concern is finding these thugs and bringing them in. Mr. Merlyn—” Malcolm straightens, uses his full height and width and postures for dominance. It works, as it would on any lesser Alpha; the detective lowers his voice to a more respectful volume.

“Mr. Merlyn, I’m going to have to ask you to return to your office. If these people call, you need to be there. I realize you might not want to negotiate, but right now we have no leads. This is our best shot at stalling and getting your… _boys_ home alive.”

For a tense moment Malcolm considers biting the alpha’s throat out, but though his hackles don’t settle and his primal instincts scream for blood, the tiny voice in the back of his mind—the last sliver of his _civilized_ self that is surviving this catastrophe—pleads with him to leave with dignity. He thinks not, at first, because these are his cubs. But then decides he will, _because_ they are _his_ cubs. The Dark Archer will find the street rats who dared to take what belongs to him, and leave them cold and broken in his wake. A more fitting fate then being taken into police custody, for their crimes.

Malcolm bows his head in acquiesce, but leaves with a growl. He’s going to his office, but not for the reasons the detective thinks, oh no. And if the police got in his way? Casualties of the war the city started with the death of his mate. Malcolm was going to cleanse the city one day, and it looked like he was starting with the blood of the lowest kind of scum. Star City had taken enough of his family. He wasn’t going to give it one more of his kin.


	3. Chapter 3

            It doesn’t take long to find Oliver and Tommy. The Dark Archer is not _liked_ in Star City’s underground, but he is _feared._ It takes a handful of well-placed threats and several hours of foot work, but Malcolm comes to learn that the _thugs_ are a couple of upstart criminals calling themselves the Pack. Just a dozen or so young pups looking to make their place in the city’s criminal hierarchy and put a few extra grand in their bank accounts. Alpha’s just coming of age; limbs still gangly and hormones making them impulsive and sloppy.

            This will be their last mistake.

            The _Pack_ have laid claim to an old, debilitated warehouse at the heart of Star City’s ghettos. No electricity or running water, yet by the smell and what Malcolm scopes out while skirting the perimeter, it seems most of the young Alpha’s have moved in. Another stupid mistake, taking their hostages to not only their base of operations, but to their _den_.

            Malcolm keeps to the shadows, light feet treading over the rusted support beams that run high above the gritty concrete below. It will be easy taking the young Alpha’s out from his perch in the rafters. His bow is heavy at his back, eager to be brought tight and take life. To take vengeance for the slight against him. For any harm that has come to his cubs.

 _“ Get your hands off of him!”_ Tommy’s voice echoes in the stale air, angry and desperate. Malcolm crouches low, moves quickly to where the outburst had originated. The beams connect throughout the entire warehouse, the few walls that remain standing low, perhaps once used for offices or storage facilities. The room Malcolm finds his sons in is lit only by a large opening in the ceiling, where the metal slats have rusted and crumbled away. There are five of the young Alpha’s here, the rest who knows—Malcolm has not heard, smelled, or seen them. He’ll have to hunt them down later, for now, the Dark Archer readies his bow; adjusts so his aim will not be disrupted no matter how the petty thugs scatter.

            “I swear to god, get off him!” Malcolm’s lip pulls back in a silent snarl that mirrors his son’s vehementone. Tommy strains against the binds that hold him to a chair, teeth bared at the young Pack members that stand over a slowly rousing Oliver, supine on an old mattress, hands bound in front of him with zip ties. The Omega looks ill, his skin pale, his shirt stained with sweat; body quaking from an occasional shiver. A bad reaction to whatever drugs the Alpha’s have given his boys to keep them sedate, Malcolm thinks at first, but the scent of Oliver’s sickness is laced with something sweet like over ripe peaches, thick like damp soil. It’s faint, though, covered by an array of so many other smells the boy exudes: fear, illness, confusion.

            It’s when Oliver mewls and arches weakly off the bed that Malcolm finally understands the severity of the Pack’s trespasses.

            Malcolm slowly begins to put his bow away. These pups will die by his hands; they do not deserve the mercy of a quick death.

            “You pieces of shit, you sick sons of _fucking whor—”_

            “Oh come off it, already!” one of the young Pack members snap, grabbing Tommy by the hair and yanking his head to the side, baring his throat; forced submission. Another straddles Oliver’s withering form, obscene promises slipping past his lips as he grinds himself shamelessly into the unwilling body beneath him. The Omega whines, eyes glazed and confused and terrified as his body betrays him.

            Malcolm drops from the high beams and lands on one of the five disgusting bastards that have dared to touch his cubs. There’s the sharp snap of bones breaking, a shout of pain, before the archer punches the back of the Alpha’s head once, _twice,_ and the body beneath him goes still. Time speeds up then, and soon Malcolm is bodily throwing another one of the Alpha’s to the ground, driving his head hard into the concrete.

            “Stop! _Stop!_ I swear to God I’ll shoot!” the one still straddling Oliver screams. He has a fist full of the Omega’s hair, the other holding a revolver in a strong grip; his posture undeceive but threatening, like he’s not sure whether to aim at the withering body beneath him or the dark figure before him.

            The other two Alpha’s fidget, restless, shocked at how quickly things have gone to shit and even less sure of how to handle the situation than their armed comrade. Malcolm ignores them, they are as useless as the slowly cooling corpses he’s made of their “pack” mates. He prepares himself for a quick draw of knife, decides the neck is the best target. He wants to watch the man gasp and plead with _God_ for his life, before he crushes the young Alpha’s throat beneath his boot for ever touching his pups.

            It is then that things once more explode into a crescendo of screaming and blood. In one moment, Oliver is weak and trembling, the next, he lunges for the Alpha’s throat, jaw clamping down and teeth ripping through skin. His growl is constant, deep and manic. The Alpha drops his gun in shock, tries to pull the Omega off of him, but Oliver only takes flesh with him, painting them both in blood and gore. What is supposed to be a scream escapes the Alpha in a wet gurgle, hands reaching for his throat in a panicked attempt to keep his insides, _inside._ He falls back as Oliver repositions himself, spitting out blood and meat as he wraps his legs around the Alpha’s waist and flips them.

            Malcolm springs back into action, vaguely aware of Tommy’s string of unintelligible panic— _“Oh my god, Jesus fuck, oh my god!”—_ as he moves to eliminate the last two remaining threats from the room. The first goes down quickly and with little fuss, paralyzed by the sight of Oliver’s sudden violent frenzy. His death is clean and far too quick, but Malcolm has little patience left and a burning need to help his youngest Omegan son. The second Alpha he pulls away from the mattress; slipping a knife between his ribs as he struggles to help the last remaining Pack member. The Alpha falls to the ground, gripping at a wound that will kill him in minutes, and greets death with a pitiful groaning.

            Malcolm turns his full attention to Oliver then, watches as he continues the crazed growling—a sound Omega’s so rarely made—and kept his teeth sheathed in the flesh of the Alpha beneath him. The last Pack member does not groan or gurgle anymore, nor does he breathe. Oliver grips desperately at the man, with hands and teeth, as though in any moment he will come to life and threaten him once more. There is blood everywhere—in Oliver’s hair, drenching his mouth and neck, his clothes, soaking into the mattress and onto the floor.

            The room is tense and silent save for the young Omega’s harsh breaths and haunting growls.

 _"Fuck,”_ Tommy says shakily, eyes disbelieving as he takes in the mess Oliver has made with his _teeth_ alone, “Jesus, Oliver, what the _fuck.”_

            Malcolm sighs and pulls out a syringe from one of the pouches on his belt. A strong sedative; Tommy will be out for hours. A necessary evil, now. He doesn’t like the feel of his own flesh and blood struggling under his grip, and the older Merlyn falls back on old contemplations of what it would be like to share his night time proclivities with his Beta son as he forces the needle into the young man’s neck; what it would be like to not have to hide.

            Malcolm sooths the urge to let Tommy in on his secret with the promise of _‘another time’_ , when the setting is right—the mood. When Tommy isn’t wide-eyed with fear, or bound crudely in a debilitated warehouse at the heart of Star City’s ghettos.

            The Dark Archer turns his attentions back to his youngest cub when Tommy goes still and limp.

            “Oliver,” he says in a hushed tone, meant to be soothing, or at least non-threatening. The growling, which had died some in volume since the Alpha beneath him had gone still, picks up in earnest. _The scrambler,_ Malcolm thinks dispassionately and switches it off. He hesitates for a second before letting his bow and quiver slip to the floor as well.

            “Oliver,” he repeats, “It’s okay now, you’re safe.”

            The growling tappers, slowly, until with a pained whine, the Omega’s teeth unlatch from the dead man’s throat and the boy climbs unsteadily off the body. Oliver curls in on himself, bound arms held to his chest and knees drawn tight, as he quakes at the unoccupied corner of the dirty mattress. His eyes meet Malcolm’s—glassy from drugs and fierce with a strong will to _survive_ —and his lips pull back to bare bloodied teeth in a classic sign of aggression. A warning. For a moment, they are at a standstill; the Omega sizes him up, deliberating the hooded figures intentions. Malcolm holds his tormented eyes for as long as the boy needs.

            Minutes later, Oliver relents.

            He does not struggle when Malcolm sedates him, but his posture is not submissive. Even as his eyes grow heavy and his body limp, Oliver tucks his chin down to hide his neck, a last show of defiance before the drugs take him under. The Alpha fights the urge to take his boys home, to care and comfort them the way only their father could. It is an impossible option, of course, but even as Malcolm calls in an anonymous tip to the police, the desire does not wane.

            Instead, he unties Tommy and lays him down on the concrete alongside his Omegan brother, away from the gore and the bodies. Side by side, bloodied and dirty, his boys look so small and fragile. He cannot bare to leave them as they are, alone. Malcolm stays hidden in the rafters while police storm the building, despite the risk of being seen in the middle of the day.

            He watches as his cubs are loaded into separate ambulances and driven off to the hospital with a growling displeasure. He wants to be with them, even now as the Dark Archer; wants to warn off any other threats with the knowledge that those boys are _his,_ mark them with his scent so that no one could mistake Oliver or Tommy as easy marks ever again.

            He reminds himself of all the reasons why that would be a terrible, _terrible_ idea; over and over he runs through the long list. It is this mantra that gets him to his home, out of his gear, and back into a suit. Something must be done, of course, to ensure something like the _Pack_ never happens again, but for now his identity must remain unknown.

            And perhaps, Malcolm considers grudgingly, the public announcement of Oliver’s true heritage will remain a secret for a while longer yet. An Omega from the Queen and Merlyn line was an Omega destined for torment by media and scum alike. A target painted on the boy’s back. The last thing Malcolm wanted was for his son to go through another trauma—as though the island and today was not enough.

            Malcolm’s cell phone rings.

            “Malcolm speaking.”

            “Merlyn?” It’s the detective from Queen’s Consolidated not hours ago, gruff and completely predictable. “We found Tommy and Oliver. They’re a bit roughed up—doctor’s have assured me they’ll make a full recovery.”

 _‘But’,_ the Alpha thinks, already knowing what’s coming next.

            “I’m going to need you to answer some questions.”


End file.
